Melty
by theshadowswhisper
Summary: Eric Cartman's thoughts on Butters. Fluff.


Eric wasn't the most eloquent human being. In fact, it would a hardly be an exaggeration to say he was one of the least eloquent. He put his own figurative foot in his mouth so often that the taste of shoe was a fundamental part of his "sophisticated" palate. His best guess for talking about his feelings was to describe relevant _Friends_ episodes (i.e.: "That one time Ross found out his wife was a lesbian? Yeah, that was hella weak; that's totally me right now"). But that was okay. People only needed to talk about their feelings if they planned to be close to other people, which Eric Cartman did not.

He hated his asshole friends more than anything. Stan, Kyle and Kenny were douche bags, and though he cared about them in the convenience-only, roundabout way that he did—and would admit to if _severely _pressed—he'd stab any one of them for the right price, no hesitation. He probably wouldn't even that feel bad about afterward. Okay, maybe a little bit. But he'd get over it by crying into his million dollars (much less, for Kenny, since it wouldn't matter, and that asshole would just be back the next day. Hell, he'd kill Kenny for free if it were like, really funny to do so. Like if he were standing on top of a tight rope over a pit of rabid midgets, Eric would totally cut that line and let him fall.)

Point was, he didn't care all that fucking much. He certainly would never be seen sitting around and braiding their hair whilst talking about their pussy ass feelings. The most common exchanges Cartman had with his closest friends were insults—or, more mutually, sessions of merciless ripping on each other. It was the closest they often came to expressing affection. Thus, emotional intelligence was wholly not required, when it came to Eric's friends.

But all that was okay, because Eric didn't need that shit in his life. In his opinion, who did? Life was easier when a person gave few craps. (Figuratively not literally, constipation blew whale dick). Cartman would know. He was fairly well versed in constipation, and it fucking sucked.

Except that it was hollow and lonely. Life was really lonely sometimes, and Cartman rarely admitted it, even to himself, but sometimes, it would nice to have someone to talk to. For a while, that person had been Chef. Since he'd never had a father figure, Cartman had brought a series of personal issues to Chef for discussion in the way one might a parent. But when Chef died, Cartman chastised himself for depending so much on that black asshole. He should have known better, he thought. It was so much easier not to need anybody. It was simpler to hate people, easier to let them go, easier not to feel anything at all. Easier not to think too much. Easier to plot and scheme and dream about some life, somewhere, where life consisted of counting money and using his money to buy stuff that made him happy. He thought about that life instead of talking about his feelings, and pretty soon, he started forgetting he had feelings. There was only this life, and disconnect with the life he _deserved. _His only concern was closing the discrepancy between sub-par reality and his dream Play Boy mansion filled with chocolate foundations and pizza makers. It was an all-consuming task.

That was all he thought he wanted. That was what it meant to be happy. That was all Cartman dreamed of for a long time.

In his sleep, Butters made a soft sound and rolled over, and Cartman wondered if his dreams had changed all that much. He still wanted that mansion. But lately, in his fantasies, instead of filling it with soft-serve ice cream machines and personal, non-black chefs…Cartman found himself filling his fantasy home with visions of what _Butters _might find to do there.

For example, Cartman had always thought that instead of stairs, he'd have slides installed to get from floor to floor. _But not like, the really steep kind. _Because Butters had been terrified huge, steep slides as a kid, on account of an unfortunate incident at the water park resulting in Butters' cracking his head open at the bottom of The Plunge slide when he was six years old. In fact, Butters might not like the slide idea at all, since when they were ten, Cartman had shoved Butters down a slide and into a pile of dog crap.

So his dream mansion became slide-less, opting for escalators instead.

Another example was the girls. Cartman's dream mansion was, naturally, filled with Play Boy bunnies. They served him food, rubbed his feet and told him how fucking awesome he was all the time. "_Oh, Eric! You are so handsome and cool. Come on my big fat titties!" _It was a fundamental piece of the fantasy. …And yet. Butters didn't like treating women like property. He had a deep respect for "hoes and bitches." He'd fucking fallen in love with a Raisin's girl, for fuck's sake. Cartman highly doubted Butters would approve of hiring a household full of scantily clad, gorgeous women—mostly to serve as deluxe, sexy furniture.

So, Cartman's dream mansion became empty of the girls and took on a detail of Mexican employees, like any other _normal _fabulously rich house.

Butters could rub Eric's feet and tell him how awesome he was, Cartman supposed.

Furthermore, Butters would want to decorate. Cartman didn't know what gay little things Butters might want to add, but it would probably make the place a whole lot classier. Butters probably knew about Feng Shui and shit. Cartman's vision got significantly fuzzier when he had the revelation, because he had no idea what that would ultimately look like—because Cartman's knowledge of interior decorating was no better than his knowledge of fucking astrophysics. Cartman had always known what his dream mansion would look like, inside and out. But he couldn't really picture what it would look like with Butters' renovations, and he could no better imagine it without Butters at all.

He'd also had to scale things down a little. Cartman's initial design had three pools, a food court, and a circus in the back yard. But the thing was, Cartman realized, the best moments were the kind he got to spend _alone _with Butters. If his was full of Mexicans and clowns and people manning pizza ovens…they couldn't have very much privacy. And Cartman found the idea of private time with Butters increasingly appealing—even over time spent at the circus, or stuffing his face with pizza. And really, the smaller the house, the better he could hear Butters in the next room, making breakfast or singing in the shower or vacuuming the floors. That was a nice thing. Cartman liked to know Butters was in the next room.

The mansion became a house. Cartman had always pictured it in Hollywood, so he could be closer to Disneyland and the World's Biggest Chocolate Factory. But Butters would want to live near his stupid fucking family and gaywad little friends, so it moved to South Park. Cartman supposed Butters would insist on letting Scott live there too, if Scott wanted. So the house got a guest room—on the far fucking side of the house, so Scott could have his privacy and Cartman didn't have to look at his stupid ginger face all the time.

Cartman stared at Butters' sleeping face for a moment, just like Edward had done to Bella in _Twilight_ (which, Cartman would never soberly confess to loving). It wasn't the prettiest sight. Butters had drool on the side of his face where his open mouth rested against the pillow. His hair was still sticky with sweat, and he was so peaceful and still that for a moment, Cartman was seized with the old urge to put shit on Butters' upper lip and snap pictures, just like old times.

He still wasn't really sure how to process this whole thing. Desire had long ago redefined itself in terms of Butters. Cartman already knew _want _in terms of the way Butters tasted and felt and smelled (sweet, soft and _home). _ Now, he also knew it in terms of Butters' whines and gasps, and the way he looked down at Cartman, all vulnerable blue eyes and words of reassurance and patience and kindness, and promises to never never _hurt_. He'd kept those promises. It certainly hadn't hurt.

He wondered if he should feel resentful that Butters was taking things away from him. In the literal sense, it was true. Butters' had removed Cartman's Nazi flags and Hitler paraphernalia from the room ("I can't think about making love with a huge symbol of hate starin' right at me, Eric. Why—I'll get weird associations between, uh, that stuff and Nazi flags, and that'll just be plain awkward.") Butters wouldn't let him eat as much as he wanted (cut him off after only his third ice cream cone), wouldn't even let him SAY whatever he wanted. It was practically like being in a concentration camp, for fuck's sake, only with less cool Swastika decorations.

The most significant loss, however, was of his fantasy. His mansion had shrunk into a modest home South Park suburbs, without a single Mexican employee, except the guys who cut the grass on weekends—who Butters brought lemonade out to, without fail, which was inevitably greeted with awed whispers of "_Gracias, Mantequilla."_

So many of Cartman's dreams now revolved around a quiet place to go back to and do _this. _To sleep in the same bed as Butters. To bang (not "make love." Jesus Christ, Butters) in the privacy of their own bedroom when they felt like it. To wake up to Butters making breakfast in the mornings, and come home to the same at night. To have a place he didn't have to fucking share Butters with any other people—like an amusement park with no lines, only better, because Cartman got laid _way_ more with Butters than at amusement parks.

It didn't feel like having things taken away, however. Cartman felt no sense of loss or anger, only confusion as to _why_ he didn't. Maybe it just came down to that. Cartman didn't really want soda fountains and slides and a three-ring circus. He didn't want swimming pools and girls with fake tits serving him cocktail weenies in their underwear. He didn't want a big house to fill with all these things—because all he _really_ wanted to fill his home with was Butters.

And maybe a million dollars.

Cartman resolved not to think of it too much more. He didn't have the words to express those things, nor the desire to make Butters understand them. Not like the little guy needed any new material to powertrip with, god.

Instead, he started scheming, and dreaming, and planning for how he might go about procuring those things he really wanted.


End file.
